


Paradise Found

by annieke



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, First Kiss, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annieke/pseuds/annieke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old West au: First time in two days he hadn't had dirt and shit blowing up his nose, and it felt good just to breathe deep, never mind the smell of sweat, smoke and stale beer that permeated the place. Reeked like a saloon, and that smelled as close to home as he'd come across.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paradise Found

**Author's Note:**

  * For [siehn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/siehn/gifts).



> Written for the h5o_exchange on LJ. For Siehn, who wanted an OW au.  
> My first h5o fic; slight cameo by Mag 7 character (my only other fandom).  
> Many thanks to iamspace for slick beta.

He didn't want to be here.

It was hot. He was parched. And the dust. The goddamned dust--in his hair, in his clothes. In his mouth. Jesus, the nearer he and his horse got to the town's faint outline of buildings, the thicker the dirt and dust. Riled up, swirling around as if it were a live and angry thing--

As if it didn’t want him here, either. As if he hadn't traveled all these hard weeks and weeks and weeks just to get to this exact spot--this exact town--to read this exact sign half covered in angry, windblown dirt.

Welcome to Paradise.

He sneezed out a cloud of shit.

Things just got fucking better and better the further west he traveled.

Finding the livery had been easy, and he left his horse and most of the rest of his money there, which really didn't bode at all well for the immediate future and his own boarding needs. 

Fuck it. The only saving grace of his being in this entire place was Grace, his daughter, and come hell or high water or all that Rachel had to shoot him down with, he would damn well see her come morning now that he was finally in this godforsaken place.

For now, he stuffed what little money was left back into his pocket, and headed toward what looked like the saloon. Place best have decent beer, although God knew what he'd find. Leave it to Rachel to end up as far west from him as possible.

He pushed his way through bat-wing doors to stand just inside the place for a long beat, soaking up the relatively clean air and finding his bearings. First time in two days he hadn't had dirt and shit blowing up his nose, and it felt good just to breathe deep, never mind the smell of sweat, smoke and stale beer that permeated the place. Reeked like a saloon, and that smelled as close to home as he'd come across.

He tipped his hat back to thread a hand through sweat soaked hair, then over his eyes to clear the grit and look around.

The place was fairly good-sized, larger inside than it looked outside, and cooler, too, plus crowded enough that he had to squeeze between patrons to make his way forward. Voices blended around him and over him as he elbowed his way up to the surprisingly well-polished wood bar, and somewhere unseen he registered the faint tinkling of piano keys mixed with the occasional raucous bark of laughter. Popular place.

The bar was shoulder-to-shoulder thick with bodies, and he pressed to the front best he could, needing that beer--that wet, throat-soothing, grit-washing beer. He planned to have one after another and another and, if the last of his money held him long enough then quite probably--because this looked to be home for as long as his baby was nearby and goddamn that this wasn't where either of them should be calling home--another. 

He leaned forward onto the bar, hand stopping mid-wave as he caught sight of the barkeep. Huge--a freaking giant. He was fairly stunned into silence when the absolute wall of a man came over and raised an eyebrow at him, and it took several blinks to register that there were words hitting him head-on.

"Hey, little haole, you hard a' hearin'? I asked you want beer or whiskey? I got good whiskey."

"Oh, I--beer. A beer, please. Thanks. Thank you." Huge, huge man--it was a wonder he could squeeze his bulk behind the bar like that. Had a weird accent, too--and did he just call him little or--

"You come on a busy night," the guy waved a hand around, then handed him a freshly drawn beer. "Payday."

"Ah," he replied, staring almost cross-eyed into the beer's foamy head and trying hard not to down the entire thing in one swallow. He fingered the coins in his pocket. "Payday. Don't I wish I had a job so--"

Suddenly his beer was yanked from his hand. "Hey!"

Kamekona held it in his big paw, his features drawn down in a frown. "No money--no beer!"

He threw coins onto the bar. "I got money." Pointed to the beer. "Now, gimme."

The beer came back, a freshly drawn head sloshing down its side, and he nodded his thanks to the big man who was now looking at him with an odd expression.

"Sorry. But no job usually mean no money, either. You lookin' for work, huh? New around here?"

"Yeah," he answered, and damn, that beer tasted good. "Just rode in. Been a long time getting here." The guy's head was enormous: bald, gleaming, and just ridiculously massive. It was hard to look away.

"You come here on purpose?"

Yeah, he thought, nodding his head. On purpose through no decision of his own. "Got--family here."

Hard pressed not to laugh outright at the big man's quizzical twist of features. 

"Family, huh? Well, den. Welcome to Paradise." A big meaty palm was displayed in front of him. "Kamekona."

"Excuse me?"

The guy waved his hand. "That's me, an' dis my place. Kamekona's."

He watched his own palm become engulfed as he shook the man's hand. "Danny Williams," he offered. "Danny."

"So no railroad?"

"What?"

The large man was looking at him, still studying him in a way he couldn’t figure. "First, I was thinkin' you were part 'a dem railroad haoles come t' town, but now I know you got family--we partial to family."

"Howlies--what's a howl--" A sudden shove behind him had him bouncing off the bar and he turned and shifted just in time to miss being hit by a flying elbow as he heard Kamekona yell out over a now undulating crowd.

"Chin Ho, come here an' get dese lolo mokes. Fuckers goin' bust up my place again an'--damn, Kono, dat you back? I told you t' get da hell outta here, keiki! Dis no place for you!"

For a split second he caught sight of a young face beneath a large hat glaring toward the big man, then a fist sailed by his head and he was again ducking out of the way. 

"Watch y' self, Danny," Kamekona was yelling again, even louder, and pointing to a group of large men to his left who were punching one another. Definitely foreigners, they all looked related. They all looked like Kamekona, actually, only smaller. Slightly. Family?

It was all very . . . odd.

He shifted one way and the crowd with him, trying to press himself as flat to the bar as he could manage as the mass of bodies headed toward him. Now rolling and heaving with flying fists, arms and boots--not to mention the flash of gnashing teeth, swear to God--he tried his best to get the hell out of the way. The brawl seemed to be centered around three or four large--very large--Kamekona-type family members, and they were all somehow surging right on top of him, pinning him to the bar--he had no where to retreat--

A wayward kick to his side had him grunting and he saw yet another coming fast, so grabbed at the raised leg and twisted hard, his own arms and shoulders aching as the side of beef fell heavily to the ground. Seconds later he quickly turned to grasp and pull the wrist of the gigantic fist flying his direction. He leveraged and the man flipped half into the air, grunting loudly as he hit the other downed body on the floor, and he again heard what sounded like Kamekona yelling in his ears--

"Whoa, shit! Chin, you see that? Hey, Danny Williams, that some kinda move you got for a little howl--"

His head was knocked which left ringing in his ears, and he whipped around to jam stiff fingers into a very large throat. The guy backed off, startled, and then suddenly everything around him faded when a wide expanse of red and angry face invaded every inch of his sight. Was that a growl? Then he was flying. Backward. Into the air.

He scrambled against a tight hold on his neck. Couldn’t catch a breath, and his hands flailed unsuccessfully to find something for purchase--find his gun, for Christ's sake--

Find air.

He couldn’t breathe, couldn't see--a voice cut into the haze around him--

"I gotcha, little haole, you hang on an' lemme get--oh, shit--"

\--and his head exploded into a million pieces.

**

"Hey. You awake?"

What?

Something poked at him, and there was hammering. Inside his head. Relentless--

"Stop," he croaked, trying to roll away and hitting a wall instead.

"Okay, sorry. Just tryin' t' see if you're awake."

He half opened an eye, quickly slamming it shut again when it was assaulted by a bright light. He was lying on his back on a small cot. Where?

"Here," a voice said and something brushed his hand. "I turned down the wick."

This time he managed both eyes open, albeit somewhat half-mast. Candlelight flickered from a dimmed lamp somewhere, and he realized he was holding a damp cloth that he immediately pressed to his eyes. Massive headache.

The voiced asked him, "Can you sit?" and he was then pulled upright before he had a chance to say no.

The world tilted, and he slammed his eyes shut, swallowing hard. Not puking would be a good thing, he figured. Hoped. His stomach was churning enough that it wasn't a sure thing, though. "May 18," he breathed.

"What's that?"

"Last time I puked," he replied, swallowing hard, "if you really want to know."

"No," the man was saying, "I really don't." Shuffling around noises, and Danny cracked an eye open to see a bucket sliding into place near his boot. "Still, use this if you feel like you're gonna break that twenty year streak, Mr. Williams."

That got his attention and he opened both eyes again to find himself staring into the broad face of a man--Chinese? No, more like the men in the saloon. "You know my name." 

The man offered a soft smile, nodding. "Well, yeah. Kamekona told me who you were and--" The guy stuck his hand out. "I'm Meka. Deputy Meka Hanamoa"

He shook the man's hand as he rolled the name over his tongue. Felt strange. "Deputy Meka Hana--Hanamoa. Uh, nice to meet you--" He stopped short, glancing around at the bars surrounding the cot he was sitting on. "What'd I do?"

"Do?"

He waved a hand indicating the obvious.

"Oh, jail," the deputy stated and shifted up to slide onto the cot with him. "No, you didn't do nothin'. Just the only place there was to put you for the moment."

A light touch to the back of his head had him wincing. "For the moment?"

"Well, longer than a moment, actually. I been sittin' here for 'bout near an hour wondering if you were ever gonna wake up. Kamekona said you just got into town. We didn't know where you were staying or where to put--"

He shook his head. "Nowhere, yet." Every spoken word sent a stab of pain from his head down, and he slipped open the shirt button at his throat and lightly rubbed his neck--very sore. "Nice place, that Kamekona's. First I get garroted by God knows what, then somebody drops a ton of bricks on my head--and you know the worst of it? I never even got to finish my beer."

"Fights happen almost every payday over there, Mr. Williams. One of them was swinging a bottle," he gave a chin thrust toward Danny's head. "Your head got in the way. You ought'a thank Kamekona, though."

"Thank him? For what? The pleasure of having my head stove in?"

"You're okay. Max says you'll be fine with some rest."

He looked at the man and sighed with a not so disguised degree of irritation. "'Max says'. And this Max would know this because he's the--"

"Undertaker."

"The undertaker," he repeated flatly. Feeling even more annoyed. With his head aching horribly. "Well, of course, he is. That's good, right? That's great, really. That the--undertaker, you say? That the undertaker, this Max, has decreed that I'm fine and, I assume gratefully, not going to need his services."

"Well, you ain't exactly dead."

He shifted and gave a dismissive hand wave, feeling sore in body and attitude. "Nope, not dead. I may feel it, but clearly I'm not. That's good, right?"

"Thanks to Kamekona." The deputy paused and stared at him, then indicated the area of his neck. "He pulled you away from the fighting. Saved you some serious hurt, I heard." 

"You heard."

"Anyway," he continued, "you showed up on payday, and there's almost always a fight on payday. Rail workers 're always ready to brawl, an' the ranch hands around here don't get along with them or the locals, pretty much ever. You just got in the middle a' some of them." He stared at Danny then, as if considering him. "Thing of it is, Kamekona and Chin both said you proved yourself in there. Reckon you got some kinda muscle for a little haole." 

He pointed at the deputy. "That word--what is that--"

But he was still talking. "So, you just get into town with, from the looks of it, pretty much all you got in your pockets and those saddlebags down at the livery, an' I gotta ask. You lookin' to stay? Kamekona said something about family--"

"Stay? Yeah," he said softly, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Looks like I'm staying. There a telegraph around here?"

"Yeah, we got one. So, Mr. Williams, you're stayin' on here in Paradise. Long enough to be lookin' for work?"

Work? He sat up straighter, never mind the insistent throb in his head, never mind that this deputy sheriff somehow knew he pretty much had everything he owned right with him, because finding a job was pretty high on his list. "Work? What kinda work we talking about?"

Deputy Hanamoa got to his feet and dug a hand in his pocket, pulling out a deputy sheriff's star and tossing it to onto the cot. "Lookin' for another deputy. There's only the sheriff and me."

"Deputy," Danny said, picking up the badge.

"Something you can think on, maybe, if you really need a job."

He sent the deputy a leveling look. Nothing was making sense. "You know nothing about me, just my name, that the undertaker says I'm not dead, and that I managed to fell a guy the size of a tree who got between me and my beer. And you want to give me a job. As a lawman."

Meka the deputy sheriff chuckled. "Does seem abrupt, I'll give you that. Kamekona says you got family here, right? Tell me, why are you here in Paradise? 

A long story, he thought, and did he really want to get into this with this stranger? Or maybe a story not so long, really, and how fucking sad was that given it was the story of his life?

He gave Meka another long look, then sighed softly and closed his eyes. A dull ache radiated throughout his skull. "I'm here because Grace, my daughter, lives here now." He shifted then, a sudden sharp pain lancing his heart. "Not here in this town, but--"

Another man entered the jail and came to lean against the bars, staring. The deputy gave him a quick look but said nothing.

Danny looked to him as well, then back to Meka. He sighed and settled back against the wall. His head and heart both ached horribly. "You know the Ranch Double E?"

"The Edwards' ranch? Yeah. We know it. We all know it. They're one of the wealthiest families in the territory." This from the new arrival, and it wasn't hard to miss the somewhat wary glance Meka gave to this man. What was that about? "Exactly what do you have to do with them, Mr. Williams?"

One of the wealthiest families--figured. Rachel never did anything on a small scale. Except him. "My wife is married to one of them. Stan Edwards."

"The Edwards? They're your family?" Meka asked, surprise written all over his face.

The new arrival pushed Meka aside as he stepped further into the jail cell. "Your--wife--is married to Stanley Edwards?"

Danny bristled some at the man's sharp tone. "Former-wife. I--we--she and I, we're divorced."

Deputy sheriff Hanamoa was staring at him. "I never met anyone who was divorced."

"Well, sorry to say you can't say that anymore." He turned and stuck out his hand to the other man who still stood with his arms crossed. "Danny Williams." 

The measured hesitation didn’t go unnoticed, but then the man returned the handshake with an overly strong grip. Okay, he got it--the guy was trying to make a point about who was in charge here, as if the tin star and tied down dual holsters didn't give that away.

"Vince Fryer. Sheriff Vince Fryer." He gave Danny a long slow perusal from head to toe. "So, tell me. What are you doing in my town, Mr. Williams, and why would I hire you on as a deputy sheriff?"

Danny frowned. It was clear Sheriff Fryer knew about him already, knew his deputy had offered him a job. "Your town in the habit of asking every stranger wanders through here if they want to be a deputy sheriff, or am I special?"

Sheriff Fryer didn’t crack a smile. "I hire men who can hold their own." Again, his eyes made a slow climb of Danny's body. "You're awful small for a lawman, actually."

"Okay, okay," he bristled. Now he was annoyed and angry. "If you are at all curious, I am a lawman. Was, anyway. In New Jersey, where I'm from, if you've heard of it, so this kind of work isn't exactly new to me."

"I thought so," Fryer said, nodding. "You have the look. Definitely the attitude. And, yes, Mr. Williams," he added with arrogance, "I know where New Jersey is."

"Great, good for you. So--"

"So, as Deputy Hanamoa told you, I'm looking for another deputy. Paradise is getting more crowded every day. We have locals who tend not to like the outsiders coming into town, which is happening daily anymore--and between them, the ranch hands and the railroad workers, well, there's a lot of--parting of the ways, let's say."

Danny rubbed his aching head and neck. "Yeah, I'm very aware of the ways--"

Fryer was staring at him, his eyes intense and unwavering. "As I said, local folk don't always take kindly to outsiders." A quick look to Hanamoa and Danny didn't miss the frown between them. Fryer nodded to the holster and gunbelt slung low on Danny's hips. "You can use that piece, or is it just decoration?"

His fingers brushed over the tooled leather. "I manage just fine."

Fryer nodded. "Kamekona told me about the fight in the saloon. You seem competent, and I don't tolerate fuck-ups." He stood back, arms crossed. "I won't offer again, Mr. Williams."

Half a minute's thought and holy shit, what was he getting in to? Danny stuck out his hand. "Call me Deputy Williams."

**

Paradise, it turned out, was even more of an odd place than he'd first thought.

The people were nice enough, but Fryer was right when he told him that although the town was located in the same country as his home state of New Jersey, it wasn't at all the same.

He sure felt like the outsider.

Most residents, it turned out, were from a place called Hawaii, an island located somewhere out in the Pacific Ocean. From what he learned, the whole town had begun with just a few families some twenty or so years prior, and more and more of them kept coming over time. Some would journey back to Hawaii, returning again months later with even more family members.

It seemed like everyone was related somehow.

Leaving New Jersey, he'd been told that heading west would introduce him to things he'd never before seen, and he'd expected that--but this was like a whole other world, really. Different peoples, different languages, even. From what he could tell there were Chinese, Japanese and mixes of both, plus a few who spoke in a language he'd never heard--and most all of them claimed to be Hawaiian. 

Oh sure, they said they spoke English, and when they wanted him to he could understand them, but interspersed with language as he knew it were words he’d never heard of, much less ever be able to pronounce. His tongue just didn’t work that way.

Some of the townsfolk were a bit friendly--sort of. Most eyed him suspiciously, though, as if he truly were the outsider, but he'd found smiles from the ladies who baked the sweet treats he bought every other morning, and the woman who ran the restaurant was always happy to chat.

Except for socializing with Meka and his small family, and Kamekona in the saloon, he was pretty much left to himself, doing his job, patrolling the boardwalk through town during the day and at night, checking that doors and businesses were secure. He'd had to pull his gun more times than he originally thought would happen--Fryer was right in thinking he needed more law around--but hadn't had to actually use it yet.

So Meka was a good guy. Fryer, he wasn't so sure about. Even the townsfolk seemed a bit wary, but no one had outright spoken against him, so Danny figured he'd keep judgment in reserve. The guy knew his law, had hired him without really knowing him, after all, and didn't seem to take shit from anyone, local or outsider--and like hell could sure hand the shit out, too. 

Like now.

Sure, a job as a lawman wasn’t too far from life as he had known it back in New Jersey, and sure enough he needed the work, especially coming to this strange part of the country after having watched most of his money trickle away with every passing mile of his lengthy journey.

Having to go clean up a murder scene, though. Ugh.

There were four main ranches on the outskirts of Paradise, and they all shared water rights to the largest lake Danny had ever seen. Vast enough to be called a small sea, really, except it was landlocked. The Double 'E', owned by Rachel's father-in-law, Everett Edwards, was the largest of the four; the smallest was called Five 'O', owned by the McGarrett family.

It was that ranch owner, one Jack McGarrett, who had been found with his head blown to smithereens while sitting tied to a chair in his parlor.

So much for living in Paradise.

In the four months Danny had been here, this was the first time there'd been this type of violence. Bar fights and brawls were weekly occurrences, the occasional shooting off of guns in town when the saloon got a bit too raucous, a couple robberies here and there. 

Nothing like this. 

Gathering of clues and evidence, yeah, that's what he did. He'd been trained by a Pinkerton detective when he lived in New Jersey, matter of fact, and it was this news that set Fryer to pointing him off to the McGarrett house.

So after they got the body gathered up and to the undertakers, he, being the newest member of the Paradise law enforcement and with Pinkerton detective skills no less, had been elected to look around, and bring back anything that might look suspicious.

Which was great, because that's what he was best at doing. It was the, "Oh, and while you're there, Deputy Williams, scrub the blood and brains off the wall before the family sees them," that had him looking askance at the mop and bucket shoved in his hands.

Well, not everything was paradise.

**

It was heaven: the heated water slipping around him, steam curling up into his hair. God. Never had a bath felt so damned good, Danny thought. He listened for a few beats after climbing in--seemed to have the whole of the place to himself all right. The proprietor had said the bathhouse was empty.

Which was good.

The soap smelled faintly of perfume. Lavender, maybe, and somehow he'd gotten hold of one of the ladies' bars. Not that he cared--it smelled nice and was washing away the lingering stench of death really well.

Felt good to glide the smooth soap over his skin, let the water become slippery with it. Felt better to take himself in hand and use that slip of his skin to palm his cock a few times. He let his head drop to the tub's high back and sighed. What a day. 

The grisly scene of earlier became a dull imprint behind his eyes. Poor guy. Someone really had it in for him. He, Meka and Fryer had looked around for a bit, talked to the couple ranch hands that worked the place--apparently he was the only McGarrett who lived there--but didn't find much of anything. Yet.

He'd head back out there again tomorrow, after the man's burial, see what he could find on his own.

A banging noise had him sitting up, water rolling off his shoulders and although he couldn’t see through the dividing curtain, he could hear the men's movements as they entered the room.

"Here y' go," Mr. Hou was saying as he clearly poured water into a bathtub. "Won't take but a few minutes to get this full up for you."

"Thanks," was a muttered response.

Water sounds, then the shuffling of feet and sudden yank on the curtain near him and Danny jerked upright, water sloshing to the floor.

"Sorry, sorry," Mr. Hou was saying, trying to put the curtain right.

It seemed to be caught on something, and then a hand tugged at it, pulling it loose and he caught sight of the most perfect face on a man he'd ever witnessed. Dark hair framing a chiseled face covered with enough whiskers to almost claim a full beard, they held a beat and stared at one another, round, dark eyes full of steel catching his own and locking tight.

"Apologies," the man then said with a long drawn out look--too long a look at a man sitting naked in a tub full of water--and then the curtain was drawn.

Danny sat back, fingertips lightly swirling the water, listening to the other man's movements, watching the closed curtain as if he could see through the thing, and trying like hell to wrap his head around what just happened.

A man could get shot giving another man a look like that. Shot dead. He'd have every right to do just that. And yet--

Boots dropped to the floor on the other side of the curtain. He could hear what sounded like a gunbelt set on a nearby chair. The rustling of fabric as clothing was peeled away.

He heard when the man slid into the tub, heard the slight exhale of a body relaxing. Stillness for a long while, and Danny found himself feeling drowsy, his own body relaxed and drifting and thinking--

Then what sounded like ripples through water caused by a hand making the same movements his had earlier--

He closed his eyes and, without really thinking, grabbed his own dick and matched the pace of the other man until a barely uttered low moan traveled to him through the curtain and a pair of deep eyes flashed through his mind. 

And so decided he was done. That was enough.

Water was getting cold anyway.

**

Morning came early, his tiny closet of a room off the back of the jail heating quickly with the rising sun, and he laid there a few minutes feeling flush from the after effects of taking care of his morning hard-on.

His brain had it out for him. He didn't even want to dwell on what vision it was his mind had offered up before he was even fully awake. A vision that focused on the eyes of that man--

Christ. This was just wrong. He was a man. A father, and a man, and this wasn't--he didn't--he hadn't had thoughts about another man in years-- 

First the bathhouse. Now this.

He got up, splashed a good amount of water on his face from the washbasin and cleaned up best he could. Couldn't think on this now. He'd deal with this later.

He wandered around town walking his patrol. The day was looking to be hot, as usual. People here didn't seem to mind the heat, had told him their island of Hawaii was always warm and sunny. He, on the other hand, wasn't accustomed to so much sun. Sure, New Jersey had its summer months, but nothing like this. He could already feel the trickle of sweat down the back of his neck. Sometimes he wondered if Meka was right in that he dressed in too many heavy layers for living out here.

They'd buried Jack McGarrett's body over at the cemetery early this morning. Chin Ho Kelly had told him that there'd been quite a lot of town folk in attendance.

Chin was a good guy, someone Danny would most likely befriend if he were ever to be around the man long enough. It was plain to see, though, that Sheriff Fryer had no use for him, and Chin seemed to avoid hanging around Danny for any length of time, disappearing outright if Fryer was even in the vicinity.

Meka had told him Chin had worked as a deputy for Fryer a year or so back, but something had happened to end that. Danny still wasn't sure what that was about, and Meka wasn't offering any explanations.

After lunch, he prepared to head out to the McGarrett place, hitching his horse up to a small buckboard in case he found any evidence to bring back with him. He walked around to give him a pat on the neck for being so patient. 

Purchased in some shit hole of a town the stage had dropped him into at some point just east of Paradise, the gelding was a beauty in his eyes. Sleek and colored gray just this side of silver. Had some kind of speed, too, he was pretty sure, and some day he wanted to really let him go and see what he could do. 

Camaro was his name. Sounded Indian to him, although he was told it was a French or maybe Spanish word, and anyway, he liked it well enough to keep it. Besides, Grace adored him. 

The ride out to the ranch had him thinking on his daughter, hoping to get the chance to see her tomorrow. So far, Rachel had been pretty decent about letting him have access to her, but it still wasn't enough time in his mind. A few hours here and there--not like he had a house for Grace to stay with him--God knew that hole of a room he rented wasn't big enough for him, much less for the comfort of his little girl.

Playing with her on the lawn of the Double E only depressed him; being surrounded by all the things he couldn't give to her was just a reminder of how little he had to offer, and how much the Edwards did. Besides, he hated being under the eye of Rachel's family when he spent his time with Grace. He had to find a better place to live.

The ranch property came into view and his thoughts shifted to McGarrett's murder.

No real clues, no suspects. Not yet anyway, but Danny had been trained by the best, knew what to look for when it looked like nothing was there. He had faith he’d find something.

He'd heard the remaining family, two adult children, had been in attendance at the burial. American, yet raised on that island of Hawaii until both had been sent here after their mother had disappeared, presumed dead. Jack McGarrett had stayed on in Hawaii in the hopes of his wife’s return, but had eventually followed his children to Paradise, taking the long and lengthy journey back and forth to the island several times over the following years. Mrs. McGarrett never did return from the dead, though.

Danny wondered about desolate hope like that lingering in somebody over the years. Had to be wearing.

There was the daughter who had a reputation as a wild thing, running off from time to time, traveling alone even, and showing up sporadically over the years.

Lord, he was never letting Grace out of his sight. 

All he knew of the son was that he’d been a war hero. Danny had his own memories of the war, and a constant reminder of it as well; his knee had never been the same since.

Buckboard set, he made his way up to the house--no Edwards' estate by any means, and terribly overgrown, as though McGarrett had lost the will to keep the place up over the years. Or maybe it just got to be too much for one man alone. Danny could relate to that.

He parked at the back of the place, near where a walkway led to a beautiful view of the lake below and he gazed over the deep blue water there, mesmerized a bit by the way the sun sparkled on its surface. Grace loved being allowed to play in the waters of this lake at the Edwards', was even being taught to swim by Stan, which Danny allowed was a good thing. He couldn't teach her as he didn't know how himself, figured he'd have to consider learning for his daughter's sake.

He gave Camaro a rub of his hand, then stilled, sensing--

There was someone in the house. 

The hands had no business there; the signs posted no trespassing by sheriff's orders were still in place on all the doors. He hadn't even seen another horse around.

He'd been told the territory judge, one Orrin Travis, would meet him at some point on the property, but there was no indication that he was here--

He drew his gun, slowly edging toward the back of the house where the kitchen was located. Small noises inside, he pulled open the door and whirled into the space, gun aiming straight out from him and into the face of the--holy shit--

The man from the bathhouse--

And found himself with a gun in his face as well. 

What the hell? “Who the fuck are you?”

The man from the bath asked him the same.

He frowned. “Put your gun down--"

"Put yours down."

Okay, this was just-- "You are not supposed to be here.”

“And you are?”

Neither aim wavered, but Danny did get a sense the man would let him talk it out before shooting, so--"Yeah. Yes. I am. I'm the law around here. This is my crime scene—you are trespassing. Did you not read the signs?"

A sharp click behind him had him freezing in place, the sound unmistakable, and his eyes slid just enough to find himself looking straight into the barrel of a double ott shotgun before the man holding it even came into view. Goddamn it.

“I’m Orrin Travis. Territory judge. Put your gun down, young man, and tell me what in the hell is going on here." 

He lowered his gun slightly, eyes never leaving those of the older man in front of him yet also keeping track of the man across the room…and wholly cursing himself that he'd not sensed any of this happening. He was never this distracted. “Danny Williams, judge. Sheriff Fryer told me you'd be coming.”

The grizzled man lowered his gun as well, nodded. "Williams. Thought as much." Then without giving Danny another look, turned toward the intruder and offered a soft smile. “Ah, Steve. Again, I'm so sorry for your loss. He was a great man, your father."

Hands clasped shoulders, definitely moves of condolences and the two men were then speaking softly. As if he weren't there.

He coughed lightly. "So, then, I'll just get back to--" 

Travis turned, waved him over. "Deputy Danny Williams, meet Steven McGarrett."

The son, and yeah, he should have guessed. He nodded his head in greeting, and McGarrett did the same. Still wary, both of them, yet something--

"We've met, actually," McGarrett said, his hand held out and mouth forming a small, quirky smile that instantly sent a pang of irritation into Danny's head.

Danny shook his hand, breath catching when their eyes caught and then he quickly looked away, having to almost yank his hand free as McGarrett didn't immediately let go. What the hell was that? What the hell was that thing with the eyes and his hand?

Travis was back to speaking with Steve, words about his dad and someone named Mary and all of it spoken softly enough that Danny figured he really did need to move along and get to work. Something about this McGarrett unnerved him--and he didn't want to think too hard about that--and so was happy to get back to concentrating on the job at hand.

The parlor remained as it had been, except for the now cleaned up area, which made him glad McGarrett's son hadn’t had to be exposed to that particular evidence of his father's murder. 

They hadn't found anything in here initially, but Danny wanted to go over everything again and as he did a slow perusal around the room, immediately realized a small box was clearly missing from the mahogany table by the window. Damn.

He'd noticed it yesterday because it had been locked and he'd wondered what was inside but hadn't had time to search for the key and hadn't wanted to take it from the room. Now all that remained was the telltale dust surround of a perfect square.

Travis and Steve walked in, clearly in discussion over something. McGarrett gave him a rather dismissive glance, which annoyed him, and only turned back to him when Travis headed back toward the kitchen.

He looked pointedly at Steve. "Did you move anything in here?' He glanced at the table with the missing box. "Take anything, maybe?"

"No." McGarrett stood with arms crossed, not glancing anywhere but at him. Then McGarrett was nodding toward him, his head cocked at an angle. "Nice suit, by the way. And is that a tie?"

Okay, okay. This wasn't the first time someone in this hell of a town offered comment on his wardrobe. So shoot him that he was a civilized person. He ran a hand over the tie covered mostly by his buttoned vest, replying, "Thank you," even though he knew it wasn't a compliment. In New Jersey and other bustling cities, men wore this attire. Every day. Shirt, vest, coat. Tie included. 

Not the ridiculous printed calico shirts and assorted bandanas of these western territories.

McGarrett was looking at his hat. "Well, at least you don’t wear a derby--and, is that you that smells so good? Lavender?"

"Okay," he started, fingering his newly purchased flat brimmed plainsman and trying his best to ignore the man. He pointed toward the obvious dust mark on the table to redirect attention. "So?"

McGarrett turned then to Travis as the man came back into the room as though Danny had said nothing. "So, Judge, I'm thinking I will take you up on that offer."

"You're sure you're up to this?'"

McGarrett was nodding. "Positive."

"Okay, then. This is good. I'll explain everything to Fryer and let him know to get you whatever you need, whatever you want." Travis was nodding as well and McGarrett was shaking his hand and Danny somehow felt like he'd missed something so big it was like a dead body in the room. No coincidence intended.

And then Steve turned fully to him and pointed. "What I want is him. As my partner." 

**

His world was spinning out of control.

Within a matter of just a few months, he'd left the comfort of his home state and moved across the country to an absolutely crazy town full of crazier people. 

And the craziest of all the crazies had, apparently, just gotten him fired, or--

He still wasn’t even quite sure what happened.

They'd left the McGarrett ranch with the assurances from the judge that solving the McGarrett murder was a priority. Their priority. The only priority.

McGarrett--Steve--gave the judge such a look of relief that Danny couldn’t help but stare at him until the man's face hardened again into what he was beginning to think was the man's "don't fuck with me or you'll regret it" face.

Then he found himself sitting shotgun as McGarrett had already hopped up onto the driver's side of the buckboard's bench--his buckboard--and grabbed the reins.

"May I ask what the hell it is you think you're doing?" he'd asked pointing out the fact that this was his wagon, his horse--

"I like to drive," was all he got in response, the man's statement so matter of fact he wanted to punch him. Hard.

"Well, where's your horse?"

Steve nodded toward the stables. "He's there, needs to rest up. Pete'll care for him. You can give me a ride back later."

They took off down the road, the judge heading out first with them following, and within five minutes he found he wanted to punch him even more.

"First off, Danny, that you even named your horse at all--then gave the thing the name of Camaro? What's that even mean?"

"Okay," he started, his hands stressing along with his words as he took a deep breath and tried to settle the rising anger, "you know what? This is my wagon. My horse, my horse's name--which means comrade in French, so I've been told by the man who sold him to me--and you, that you don’t even care enough to name the animal that--"

Gunshots cut off his words, and they saw Travis rein in as within seconds, a horse and rider came tearing out from behind trees to cut across their path, followed by another, guns blazing--and both of those men quickly followed by what looked like Sheriff Fryer and another rider. Danny thought it might have been Meka, but they weren't close enough to see.

The judge was riding back toward them and the next thing he knew he was jerked to the side as the buckboard lurched hard.

"Hang on," Steve yelled, already slapping reins and almost standing as the wagon gained speed in pursuit.

Danny hung on tightly, sliding across the seat, grabbing hard as he about flew out the side. "Are you out of your mind?"

They were tearing through a field, the barely there rutted road cutting an old worn path through the grasses and making a direct shortcut toward the main road. McGarrett's intent becoming clear--

"We can't catch them, are you crazy? The buckboard'll fall apart before--"

"I know what I'm doing," Steve yelled and honest to God, they actually were gaining ground on the riders. Unbelievable. 

The buckboard shook to holy hell, wheels rattling--something flew off into the air--and Danny knew, knew this was going to end badly.

Then Steve was thrusting the reins at him, telling him to grab them and then, crazy man that he was turning out to be, was climbing--standing--on the seat with Camaro just racing onward--

"Sit the hell down!" he was screaming at him, trying to grasp the man's pantleg to yank him down--

They were cutting across, careening toward a bend that was clearly going to put them in the direct path of the lead rider. Dirt was flying everywhere, hooves and wheels kicking up clouds of mud, rocks and debris and Danny pulled the reins hard to avoid an actual collision with the first horse and rider because it was going to be inches--inches--

Time slowed then, with the wagon racing, Danny angled hard in the seat trying desperately to turn them out of the way of the oncoming horses. Steve was flying through the air, landing on top of the first rider. Gunshots echoed everywhere and Danny turned just to catch sight as the second rider was also somehow falling, body landing with a sickening sound as Fryer and Meka reined in hard behind him. 

Noise filled his ears, a burning pain tore through his upper arm and the wagon was tilting then, shifting, sliding, turning or maybe it was him, he couldn't even tell--

Until his body came to a rolling stop, flat on his back in the weeds with breathing an entirely questionable function.

A hand on his arm. Steve or--?

"Danny, you okay?" Pulling him upright, Meka was leaning over him, helping him sit. 

He was dizzy, and sore. God, his knee. And shot. And angry--goddamnit--so angry. With Meka's help he stood and hobbled over to where Steve was half leaning over, hands on knees and breath coming hard. Steve glanced at him, his face streaked with dirt, blood and sweat--

"Hey, you all right?" Steve was asking.

Danny was seething, and he stepped closer to McGarrett, his finger inches from the man's face. "Do you know I have a daughter? No, you do not. But I do. And I am supposed to have supper with her. Tonight. I am not supposed to be dead on the road because some lunatic decides he can outrace a few gunmen all the while he's trying to fly through the air in a hail of bullets and assuming I can steer a wagon and cover for him at the same fucking time!"

McGarrett pulled himself to his full height, snarling back. "Take your finger out of my face."

He didn't give a shit, and moved closer, finger now stabbing his word pattern into McGarrett's chest because goddamnit: "You do not take off after--hey, hey! Are you even listening to me?"

Because it was clear the man wasn't registering and in a half-breadth of complete dawning clarity, he realized too late that Steve was going to--

Yeah, his good arm was now twisted up high behind his back and he was dropping to his knees because fuck if that didn't hurt, his gunshot arm doing little to brace against the ground and where in the hell had McGarrett learned this kind of move--

"You need to listen to me," McGarrett was saying and he realized that Travis had apparently waved off both Fryer and Meka, the three of them, plus the bad guys, now just taking in the show. "Now, you don't have to like me, but we are going to work together on this. I've made you my partner, and we're going to get along just fine."

"Okay, okay. Just let go." He stood, pushing his hair from his face, body aching but that didn't register as he turned, fist hitting McGarrett hard in the jaw and sending him reeling and shit, that hurt him, too. A lot. He shook out his hand, hissing in anger and in pain and frustration, "You're right. I don’t like you."

He grabbed his hat and stormed away.

**

They'd come back to town and met with Fryer and Meka, Judge Travis explaining what was going on in no uncertain terms:

"I've set this sort of thing up in a few towns now--" He held up a hand when Sheriff Fryer began to protest. "Vince, I know you're the sheriff here. I'm not changing that, but in addition to the order you bring to town, the governor has given me leave to implement special law enforcement groups where I see fit. McGarrett, here, is given free reign to set up his team any way he wants, with full cooperation given fully from you and your deputies should he have need."

Fryer pointed to him. "Williams is one of my deputies."

"Not anymore."

Steve stood leaning against Fryer's desk, arms folded across his body and nothing but an expression of steel gracing his face. When Danny glanced at him, Steve shot him a split-second sliver of a smile, and Danny couldn't help but wonder what the hell he'd gotten himself into with this man.

Fryer was clearly unhappy, scowling the entire time and frowning at Steve more times than not as he continually tried to protest the situation.

Apparently, Judge Travis couldn't give a shit.

"It is what it is. I've given McGarrett license to gather whomever he feels he needs to get the job done. His group will be investigating the murder of his father for starters and Vince, I fully expect you to help when requested."

With a long look to all present, Travis continued. "Your town, like so many others along the railroad, is expanding rapidly. I realize Paradise is a bit unique in its origin, but rest assured there is major expansion heading this way, and with that will also bring a rise in crime. The governor and I hope to keep peace as these western territories grow. Who knows, we may even become a state one day."

He grabbed his hat and said his goodbyes. "I'm headed out, but will pass through from time to time. You can always reach me via telegraph, or, if you don't hear from me, contact my daughter-in-law. She'll always know where I am. I'll leave all my information at the telegraph office. Gentlemen, I trust your future working relationships will prove peaceful and prosperous for the town of Paradise."

Danny glanced around the now silent room, the quiet in Travis's wake an unsettling tension. His eyes landed on McGarrett for a long beat, then he turned and headed toward the saloon.

**

Now, he and McGarrett stood at the bar in the saloon, each of them downing a gutwarmer and beer chaser before they had to fully acknowledge the other's presence.

It was early enough the saloon wasn't crowded, and they moved themselves and their beer to an empty table, still not saying much to one another.

Danny ached all over. The bullet graze in his arm was now covered with a white bandage over some kind of goop that Max, the undertaker, had slapped on it after great lengthy assurances that it would help. Smelled weird to him, and had kind of burned before making his skin feel almost numb. That Max was a strange little duck. Competent enough to dole out medicine to the townsfolk when the doc and his assistant weren't available, he was told, and both of them gone off delivering someone's baby this time. Just his luck.

He glanced over at McGarrett, the man slouched half in his seat with long legs sprawled loosely in front of him, fingertips lightly swiping over the still red mark on his chin. Danny grinned a bit over that. A part of him, a smug part, was glad the mark was not only visible, but also giving the man pain.

Truly, he still knew not much of anything about who this man was--although clearly Travis put a huge measure of trust and respect in him. It riled him that he'd been almost shot, though--in all the time spent keeping the peace in New Jersey, working the streets of a city ten times over what this place was, he had never been shot. Wounded, yeah, hurt, yeah, but not shot.

His arm twinged, the other one, the one McGarrett had twisted to put him on his knees in front of Fryer, for shit's sake. Fryer, who his own personal jury was still out on because there was something just not quite right about that guy--

"How's the arm?"

He held up a finger. "Do. not. talk to me."

McGarrett's lips were pressed together and he could see him half nod to himself. Irritated, then. Good. They had something in common.

"Look, Danny--"

He raised his hand, "Don't," then buried his nose back into his beer and wondered how much shit Rachel would give him if he were to show up this early to see Grace.

McGarrett was relentless. "I just think we need to discuss--"

He cut him off. "Unless the next words you utter are that you want to discuss how sorry you are for getting me shot, then I don't want to talk to you."

Steve made a choking sound. "You want an apology."

"An apology! For getting me shot. Imagine that!"

"Okay." McGarrett was leaning toward him now, eyes blown wide in the saloon's shadowy interior. "Okay--"

It made him angry that he was drawn to looking into those eyes. He looked away. Wasn't going to look at them. Was not.

"I am sorry you got a little graze--"

"Deeply rutted flesh--" he countered into his beer, could sense Steve staring right at him. Wasn't going to look--

"Sorry you were kinda hurt and--"

"Wounded. I was dangerously wounded." Danny did look up then and caught those stormy blue eyes. Wait, blue? Or green, maybe--and was that a smirk?

"And I am truly sorry I made you cry."

"You fuck." 

**

He was never going to move. Right here, right now, this was all he ever wanted. He'd stand here forever, just like this. 

"Okay, Daniel, she really needs to get ready for bed."

He sighed, inhaling the scent of his beautiful daughter one last time before he had to let go. Imprinting forever the feel of her arms wrapped like they were around his neck, and letting the smoothness of her still baby soft cheek linger slightly longer as he pressed a kiss there.

My God, how he loved her.

"So, Deputy Danno," Grace was saying to him as he held her up, "you catch any bad guys today?"

"Don't I always?" he asked her, grinning and enjoying this game of theirs.

"Like who? Tell me!"

"Bed, Grace. Tell your daddy good night." Rachel's voice cut between them, and he felt Grace being pulled away, his skin already cooler as her soft warmth left him. 

"I'll tell you all about it next time, monkey," he told her, melting as she beamed a smile at him. "Especially about catching the big, tall, mean McGarrett monster. He was the baddest of them all."

Grace was shrieking, "Oh, Danno! Tell me now!"

"Grace," Rachel admonished, "bedtime. And Danno has to get back to town before it's too dark to ride, remember? We wouldn't want him to get hurt, now would we?" She tilted her head and gave a pointed look to his arm where the faint outline of a bandage could be seen underneath his shirtsleeve now that his jacket was removed.

He wasn't going to discuss it with her. "Your mother's right. Bedtime, Gracie."

"Okay. G'night, Danno."

"Night, monkey. Danno loves you."

He ran his hand down her back and held her eyes as Rachel carried her back up towards the house, her voice carrying back to him. "Mommy says you can come get me on Saturday. Don't forget!"

"Never," he yelled back in promise to her.

"Never," he promised softly to himself.

The ride back to town was filled with visions of his daughter and the absolute joy she filled him with when she was by his side. She was what made this place a true paradise.

The thought of spending the rest of the evening staring at the four walls of his tiny, stuffy room behind the jail left him wanting for company. Another mile and he came to the fork in the road and somehow, without even thinking about it, jeeze, he turned away from town and was now headed to the McGarrett house.

What was he doing? He had no answers except--no. He wasn't going to think about this.

He must have sat in the saddle for ten minutes debating whether or not to actually ride up the drive to the house, and after doing just that, another ten minutes deciding whether or not to alight.

Really, what was he doing here? Even Camaro was giving him an inquisitive look. 

"Hey," came from the house. 

Decision made, he guessed, and tipped his hat to Steve who asked:

"What's wrong?"

"What makes you think something's wrong?"

McGarrett was leaning against the door just looking at him with those eyes, but said nothing.

"Nothing's wrong," he told him. "I just--" Jesus, he was sounding pathetic even to his own ears. "I was just passing by, and saw your lamps were lit--"

"Passing by from the Edwards'--you were just with Grace?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

"And you came here?"

The look on Steve's face plainly told of the disbelief that it would have crossed anyone's mind to just pay him a visit just to visit. "Well, I guess I did. I'm here, right? Here I am."

Steve smiled at him, warmer, broader--and now Danny was thinking maybe he shouldn't have come after all given the rush of blood that just left his brain completely to pool warmly into his groin. What was it about this man that did things to his body that shouldn't be caused by another man?

Steve then ushered him in and poured him a generous shot of whiskey that he downed embarrassingly fast. "Thanks. Didn't really even know I needed that." For more reasons than he cared to dwell on, he thought.

As they walked through the house, it occurred to him there was now stuff piled everywhere he looked--now that he did look--and a large part of him wondered how Steve could be living here within just days of his father's murder. 

He waved a slow hand around the mess of the room. "Lose something?"

"Been looking for answers. Haven't found anything. I've looked at everything. In everything. Every paper, note."

Danny immediately thought of the missing box, and glanced to that small table.

"Yeah," Steve said, "I found that box. Turns out my sister took it and pried it open thinking she'd find money in it."

"Oh. Okay."

Something bright hit the table. "There wasn't. But there was this," Steve explained.

It was a key. He picked it up and turned it over, looking back up at Steve.

"Doesn’t fit anything here in the house, I checked."

Danny handed it back to him, their fingertips brushing slightly together.

"Danny--"

He wasn't responding to this--wasn't ready for this, whatever this was he felt in the air and so stepped away to gain some ground. "So, you have any idea who would want your father dead?"

Steve didn't say anything for a long beat. "I know who killed him, Danny. What I need to find out is why."

"You know? You know and haven't said--who-- Who is it?"

Steve's turn to stand and step away. His agitation was palpable. "Name's Victor Hesse. Irish immigrant."

"Why would he want to kill your father? Why haven't you said anything--why didn't you tell Fryer this?''

Steve turned back to him then. "Not sure of all of it yet. And I didn't tell Fryer because Fryer knows Victor. Knows him very well."

Danny sank onto the chair by the desk. "Wow."

"Yeah. Travis knows all this--one of the reasons he set up this new arrangement. He wants Hesse. Wants Fryer, too. Something's not right there. But there's more to it, more I don't know, but I have suspicions. I was planning on filling you in tomorrow, when I gather the rest of my people."

"People?"

"Well, one person I want to join us for now. Chin Ho Kelly. I've known him for years. You'll like him. He's a good man."

Danny nodded, head reeling with all this new information, curious about what was not said. "Yeah, I met him briefly. So, tomorrow?"

Steve nodded, looking worn. "We'll meet and I'll go into more detail."

"Okay." He stood, suddenly weary with a head full of questions he was too confused and too tired to even begin asking. "Guess I ought to get going, leave you to all--this--" No, it didn't seem right. "Listen, it's not my place, but I'm not sure it makes sense for you to stay here when…when…this--"

There was that half smile again. "This is my home, Danny. Of course I'm staying here."

Danny nodded, because really, who was he to tell the man otherwise. Still, though, there was something vulnerable in Steve's eyes, layered there behind the constant bravado. Danny could read it even if Steve thought it buried.

They walked to the door, Danny sensing Steve's hand just a hair's breadth away from his back as he followed him through the house, as if Steve was about to touch him. 

He wanted Steve to touch him.

Which was crazy.

Wasn't it?

He turned abruptly to offer out his hand, offer his thanks, his condolences again, but found Steve had followed so close to him that they bumped into one another. 

His nose to Steve's chest, he pulled back sharp. Embarrassed. "Oh, sorry."

Steve's hand came up to brace against the wall by his head. Leaning over him. "Don't need to be."

"Don't need to be what?"

"Sorry," Steve said, and then his other hand was suddenly there, finger crooked with a knuckle tracing a weightless path along the side of his face, almost but not quite touching, stopping with a tender press of fingers to the bandage around his arm. Resting there. Then Steve, still so overly close to him, was asking, "This okay?"

What the hell? This what? Sorry for what? What okay? His wound? "It's fine," he muttered, cringing at the sound of a frog suddenly jammed into his throat.

"Because I'd hate to have to apologize to you again, you know."

Danny was trying to swallow, so unsure. So dry-mouthed. How was this happening--how was he letting it? and why?

Why a man after so long? Why this man?

The hand on his arm ghosted back up to his face, and slowly, slowly fingers traced along his mouth and he allowed them to gently part his lips. Allowed the tip of one finger to slip just that much into his mouth, his tongue sliding the barest hint of touch along its surface as Steve kept it there. 

He could feel the soft warmth of Steve's breaths along his hairline, and he started to tilt his head up to look at him, find those eyes and see the lust that had to match his own--had to be there--

"Steve?"

A woman's voice called from the stairs and he pulled sharply away, hand wiping the dampness from his mouth. 

Steve was looking at him still, then turning to call over his shoulder. "Down here, Mary."

Mary. The sister, Danny thought a second before the young woman came almost bounding into the room.

She was grinning openly. And wearing pants. A woman wearing pants. Definitely matching the lively description he'd heard of her.

"Hi. You must be Danny. The haole. I've heard all about you."

"Mary," Steve said sharply and Danny got the feeling the face Steve shot at her was used a lot in this house.

"Okay, sorry. I didn't mean it as an insult." She was staring outright at Danny, smiling widely, and he gave her a nod and small smile in return, sure as shit wishing he could leave. Now.

"Danny's just leaving," Steve was saying, reading his mind and Danny was more than grateful as he was ushered out the door.

"Okay, well--nice to meet you, Danny," Mary called after, tilting her head to call out even after Steve was closing the door, "I'm sure we'll see more and more of you soon!"

"Sorry," Steve offered as they now stood outside.

Danny smiled. It was okay, he had sisters of his own. "You don't need to apologize."

A grin then and Steve laughed, eyes intense. "Oh, really." He reached out and grabbed a hand around Danny's tie, pulling it free from beneath the vest and yanking hard enough for Danny to stumble up against him. "Not for that--or this?"

Lips descended and he let them come. Welcomed them. Let the slide of tongue glide along his teeth before it plunged deep, filling his mouth before he pushed his own back into Steve's and kissed back. Hard.

They parted then, stepping away from one another and panting lightly.

A long pause, then Danny grinned as he turned to his horse and mounted. He looked at Steve. "Men have been shot for less, you know." 

And Steve was laughing. "Okay. Shoot me. Just as long as you come back to apologize." 

The moon was bright in the sky as he slowly turned down the road to home--to Paradise--and he smiled.

He was definitely learning to like it here.

end.


End file.
